And, finally, Tamara Peyton Hunt had been eight weeks pregnant.

Nick remembered when his wife Meagan had told him she was expecting. She'd been finishing her master's degree in English. He'd just made detective second grade. He'd been at work when she called and said abruptly, "Nick, you're going to be a father," then hung up. He'd immediately called home, but there had been no answer. When he arrived back at the apartment for dinner, Meagan was furiously stirring a pot of spaghetti sauce. She'd looked at him almost fearfully with her big brown eyes. Then she saw the yellow roses and the bottle of sparkling cider topped by a bow he carried, and she'd burst into happy tears.

He hadn't told her how much he wanted a child because he knew becoming a college professor was so important to her. He didn't want her to feel pressured to interrupt her education. He later learned she hadn't talked about how much she wanted a child because he was the eldest of seven children. She thought he was sick of kids and she didn't want him to feel pressured. But the day Paige was born was the happiest of their marriage.

Had Tamara Hunt wanted this baby as much as Meagan had wanted Paige? From everything Nick had heard about her, she had. Desperately. How about her husband? Warren Hunt seemed more of a mystery than his wife was. Everyone they'd questioned had wonderful things to say about Tamara. They talked about her sweetness, her generosity, her devotion to her husband. No one seemed willing to volunteer much about Dr. Hunt except that he seemed to have a fairly successful practice and he dressed well. Glowing comments, Nick thought wryly.

"We going to question Warren Hunt today?" Ted Hysell asked.

Nick swiveled back in his chair, looking at Hysell's eager face gazing at him from the doorway. The guy tried to hide his excitement over the case beneath a stern veneer, but it wasn't working. Even though he'd known Tamara Hunt and supposedly liked her tremendously, he was delighted to be working a murder case. Maybe if Nick had spent ten years on the police force and never encountered a serious case, he'd feel different, too. But Tamara was only slightly younger than Meagan had been, and so much he'd heard about her reminded him of Meagan-Meagan, too, kind and loving and murdered with the world ahead of her.

Hysell's enthusiasm rankled and Nick stared at the man for a moment. He would like to take someone else with him, but Hysell had seniority among the deputies. Nick forced away emotion. "Give Hunt a call and make sure he's home. Don't let him put you off, but don't scare him, either."

"Give him the 'it's just routine' routine, right?"

Hysell beamed at his own clever turn of phrase. Nick nodded, sighing within. Hysell annoyed the hell out of him.

Twenty minutes later they pulled into the Hunt driveway. Nick saw Jimmy Jenkins standing in his own driveway watching avidly while from somewhere outside, his mother bawled reprimands to one of the other children. He waved briefly at Jimmy, who returned something like a salute. Jimmy was a pistol, Nick thought. Bright, funny, obsessed with that smartass TV cop, and seemingly with Paige. Nick didn't mind them being friends. He just didn't want them to be best friends. He wasn't sure Jimmy's influence was all that healthy on an impressionable eleven-year-old girl.

Warren Hunt opened the door promptly. He wore neatly pressed khaki pants, a pale blue oxford shirt, expensive loafers, and CK cologne. He was clean-shaven and his dark brown hair was still damp from the shower, but the whites of his eyes bore a network of red lines and his well-kept hands shook slightly. "Good morning, Sheriff," he said affably, smiling broadly. Then doubt flashed in his eyes and he turned down the smile a notch. "Come in."

"Thanks," Nick said. "This is Deputy Hysell-"

"I knew Tamara," Hysell interrupted. "Lovely girl. I'm a few years older. We met skating. She was better than I was. And pretty as a picture. Sweet, too." Is it possible for this guy to shut his mouth? Nick stormed mentally. "This is a real tragedy, Warren."

Warren Hunt looked blankly at Hysell, clearly having no idea who this chatterbox was. Nick ignored his deputy. "Do I smell coffee?"

Relief shone on Hunt's face. "Yes. Would you like some?"

"Sure would. Black."

"Deputy…"

"Hysell. I'd like some, too. Cream. Or milk, but not too much. No sugar."

When Warren went into the kitchen, Nick forced himself to sound mild. "Hysell, let me do the talking for now." Hysell immediately looked sullen. "I'll give you a signal if I want you to spring something on him."

Some of the deputy's irritation dissipated, although Nick hadn't specified what Hysell was to "spring" on Hunt. It didn't matter. Hysell walked to the fireplace and fell into a deep study of an oil painting hanging above the mantel, an act clearly meant to communicate nonchalance to Hunt.

Warren entered the room carrying two mugs of coffee. Hysell took his with merely a nod. Nick sipped and smiled. "Good." Hunt looked relieved again. Nick sat down on the couch. "Sorry to inconvenience you this morning, Dr. Hunt. I know you're probably busy with funeral arrangements."

Warren took a seat on a wing-backed chair. "Actually Tamara's father and sister are handling all that. They wanted to and I thought it might be therapeutic."

"I see. Well, I just have a few questions for you, things you told me yesterday but I need to confirm." Nick gave him an offhand look. "Everyone was pretty upset after just getting the news. I want to make sure I have everything straight."

"Certainly. I understand." Warren seemed to relax and crossed an ankle over a knee. "How can I help you?"

"I understand that you were attending a three-day convention in Cleveland."

"Yes. It began Thursday morning at nine. I left Wednesday evening and stayed at the Hyatt where the convention was being held. Saturday night we had a banquet. I planned to wrap up a few things Sunday and be back here by five or six o'clock. Then I got the call about Tamara…" He took a deep, shuddery breath.

"Why didn't your wife go with you?"

Warren blinked at him. "What?"

"Why didn't your wife go with you to Cleveland? Wouldn't she have enjoyed shopping, dining out, that kind of thing?"

"No." Warren 's fingers began to tap lightly on the arm of the chair. 'Tamara was shy, almost reclusive. Oh, if the trip had just been a little weekend excursion for the two of us, she would have loved it. But she didn't want to be thrown in the midst of all those people. There was a cocktail party Wednesday night and the banquet Saturday. She hated that kind of thing."

"I see." Nick withdrew a notebook from his pocket and pretended to check it, although he knew its contents by heart. "The banquet was held the night of your wife's murder."

"That's right."

"You sat between Dr. Forbes Evans and Dr. Charles Feldman."

"Yes."

"You arrived at seven and left around ten."

"Yes."

"Hmmm. Well, here I have a problem because Dr. Evans says he returned to his room around eight-ten and you were getting ready to leave."

"Forbes is elderly. He was exhausted and embarrassed about darting away from the banquet so early, so I said I was leaving, too. But I didn't."

"That was considerate of you. But Dr. Feldman says he actually went back upstairs with you at eight-twenty."

Warren 's tapping fingers went still. "He's mistaken."

"His wife says he called her around eight-thirty from his room."

"I don't know when he called his wife, but we did not leave the banquet that early. Anyway, what difference does it make?"

"Time of death, Dr. Hunt. The M.E. places your wife's time of death between eight and ten."

"That's fairly vague."

"Unfortunately in real life they can't be as accurate as on television where the M.E. can place time of death within fifteen minutes." Nick gave him a casual smile. "Impossible."